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starswornoaths · 1 year ago

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Deliquesce - Commission!

Commissioned by a dear friend @eremiss! Thank you for your trade, darling! :D

cw: feat. canon-compliant character death, grief, panic attack, general trauma.

platonic! wol and Aymeric

Gwen has been burying all her problems in the snow, content to leave her pain where it is numb and can't hurt her. But she's not the only one that's been adding to that proverbial corpse pile. An unexpected but most welcome kinship among proverbial gravediggers forms on a particularly cold night over a lovely cup of tea.

word count: 10,239

~*~

Gwen had trudged through hip-deep grief for so long by the time she had been ushered through the Arc of the Worthy that she had almost acclimated to the slow creep of its rising tide. The journey to Ishgard had been so fraught with loss and betrayal and blood by that point, she could practically picture herself chin-deep in ghosts and guilt.

Foolishly, she had hoped for respite. Just enough to start dragging herself out of it before she would be dragged down by it all, at least.

Then her constitution, battered and threadbare as it was, became buried beneath bureaucracy and blizzards. By the time the truth of the Dragonsong War came to light, it felt like Gwen was barely treading above it all. Like it was all she could do to keep from being entombed in the avalanche.

There were many logs in her proverbial hearth to keep out the chill, at least; what had remained of her Scions were a comfort, and she had begun to rebuild a circle of friends to wall herself in from the cold.

Not replacements. Never. But more who could stand with her as she searched. Those who could help her remember to hope, and introduced to her Scions, to be welcomed among them when they returned.

If, hissed a voice in the back of her head.

Her whorling thoughts sent her out of bed and pacing her room, though she had only managed fitful tossing and turning before giving in to the buzzing beneath her skin. There was a war of attrition in her mind against her thoughts, and they were intent on starving her out of reprieve.

At least it was in Fortemps Manor rather than the Forgotten Knight that she paced; this way, there were fewer people she could wake with her mumbling and pacing.

Alas, she would have to fend for herself if she wished to avail herself of the kitchens. But then, even stepping out of this room ran the risk of being perceived.

The walls were red—too red. They looked painted in fresh blood. Everywhere in the house, everything was too red. She couldn’t remember if she felt that before they had gone to the Vault but it was all she could think of in that moment.

Were the walls always this red, or had her hands painted them darker? Did she cast the shadow of death in this place, and that was why there was any blood spilled at all? Was she the only one that had noticed, had felt this, this all consuming guilt?

But Gwen had been in this position before. She would be here again, in this familiar place of burden and guilt and strife. While those who lived here and welcomed her as family would disagree with her, her mind would not loosen its claws from the circling drain it had latched onto: that everything that had happened left her unworthy of the bed she was given in this home, having been there and unable to heal the son they had lost because of her.

And that was how Gwen found herself throwing on the previous day’s crumpled clothes, jamming her feet into her boots, and stepping out of Fortemps Manor.

The knight standing guard at the door gave her a respectful nod as she came down the few steps to the street.

“Lady Ashe,” he greeted politely, the same as every knight and noble in this city had since her arrival.

Another handful of snow around her neck. Words formed a tangled knot in Gwen’s throat, and she could do little more than give a tight nod as she hurried past him.

The Last Vigil was occupied only by the night watch that milled about on patrol, be it at the door of a High House, or marching along the street. They all greeted her the same: “Lade Ashe.”

Gwen pressed her lips together so tightly that they lost feeling but for the pinch of skin beneath her teeth. It was getting harder to breathe.

Desperate for reprieve, she skipped bolting down the walkways to Foundation, and instead made for the nearest aethernet shard to whisk herself away to the aetheryte plaza.

Somehow even more bereft of life than the Pillars, there was but a solitary knight standing watch, who gave but a silent nod as she scurried past. At least the knights and passerby here gave her a wide berth and a quieter sort of reverence; she was more accustomed to ignoring the holes burned in the back of her skull from the eyes of others watching her.

Nowadays, it was out of some misplaced sense of awe, at least, rather than the suspicious eye of one watching a street urchin scuttling around the waste bins. At least the stares burned differently now.

Without consciously giving it much thought, Gwen had begun to make her way to the Congregation, though once she realized what direction her boots were taking her, she let them do as they wished; it was such habit to report in from the aetheryte, little wonder she had done it without choosing to.

Just the thought of looking for more work exhausted her, but the Forgotten Knight was only catter-corner to the Congregation itself, conveniently enough. It was hardly slumming it, but the slight scratch of sheets made thin from years of hard soap would be a damn sight more comfortable to her than lying on sheets with a higher thread count than she could recall ever touching before. It would help her remember being Gwen.

The ale in the Forgotten Knight was just mild enough to handle but full bodied enough to be a cheap and cheerful thrill. Their beds, while not the lap of luxury like that found in her room in Fortemps Manor, were deceptively comfortable given the circumstances. Gwen suspected that Hilda’s myriad donations had something to do with the quality of its upkeep, though knew better than to pry.

A room could be available, but she had caught the dead hours between supper and breakfast, so she would go to bed on an empty stomach, should she duck in from the cold. It was far from ideal, and her heart wasn’t even half in it, but it was preferable to either looking for work so late or winding her way back up to the Pillars.

As she ascended the last of the stairs, her boots kicked into an unexpected pool of honeyed light that spilled onto the street. It drew her eye toward the second story window that it poured from, solitary in its luminescence.

Gwen paused in the street, a thoughtful frown marring her brow. Realizing through what window that golden hearthlight was spilling from, she couldn’t help but let out a frustrated but fond huff as she jammed her hands in her pockets as she started walking again.

What’s he doing up at this hour? she wondered, and picked up the pace across the courtyard to the massive wooden doors to the Congregation, her initial plan of ale and accommodation set aside in favor of instead sating her curiosity.

The graveyard shift found within was so barebones at that hour there was hardly anyone there to greet her—which was why the solitary knight fidgeting by the door to the lift all but confirmed Gwen’s suspicions: her friend was one of the only ones still awake this godsforsaken early.

The attending lift guard looked about ready to fall asleep upright when she came in, and only jolted awake at the clack of her footfalls approaching.

“O-oh, Ser Ashe,” he greeted her.

That title settled a little easier on her mind—or at least, easy enough to keep the nausea at bay. However informally, it was only a rank. It was something so many other people had that any significance the word had was lost. She was but another knight, same as any other wearing chainmail around her. It was fine.

“Is the Lord Commander in?” she asked once she had exchanged enough pleasantries for three bells past midnight.

“Aye, ma’am—I await his relief, point of fact.” he admitted, visibly uncomfortable at the thought of going up to ask his commanding officer if he might go home. “I, err, I can’t go home until either he does, or my relief shift comes in a few hours. Whichever happens first.”

Well. If Aymeric didn’t realize that his habits were hurting others already, then Gwen would beat him over the head with every new revelation she could until he did.

“May I head up to speak with him?” she asked, and at his hesitation, she added, “he needs a reminder of what the chirurgeon’s orders are.”

While it wasn’t technically a lie, Gwen knew about as much of Aymeric’s medical release as he pretended he didn’t. The man could do with a reminder to rest—or at least, that his subordinate needed one.

Blessedly, either her excuse was good enough or the guard was so sleep deprived that it didn’t matter, as he waved her through to the lift with a jaw-popping yawn and barely another glance.

Gwen spent the lift ride up convincing herself that it was the knight’s exhaustion that let her slip by with little incident. It was a brief enough trip that she at least didn’t have too long to fail in doing so. It eased the sting of it as she stepped out into the Seat of the Lord Commander.

It wasn’t a surprise to see Aymeric at his desk, hunched over an unfurled scroll and only looking up at her intrusion. What caught her off guard was that his armor was haphazardly draped about a spare chair beside the desk, leaving him in a simple gray shirt and dark pants.

To her, it looked as though he had all but grown roots for how settled into that seat he looked, like a puppet gone slack from severed strings. At the sight of a wincing twitch in his neck, she idly wondered if he had moved at all in hours.

“My friend,” Aymeric greeted her, warm as ever even through the surprise that colored his tone.

After a moment, she clocked the way his shoulders pulled taut—he was trying to stand as straight as his wounds would allow, she realized when he flinched back into a slight slouch.

Sighing, he chanced speaking after a moment’s pause, “I confess, you have me at a disadvantage. Is aught amiss…?”

The tentativeness behind his inquiry betrayed how much tension he was attempting to hide from her in the asking. In all likelihood, he assumed she wasn’t here for a social visit. Not that she could blame him, for how little they had interacted beyond work—

“Well, I saw your light on,” Gwen said conversationally, gesturing toward the windows behind him. “Still on, actually. Weren’t you supposed to be in bed by now?”

Another wince crossed Aymeric’s face for the briefest of moments but almost as quickly as it came the moment passed, and he was once more all pleasant impassiveness.

“I was just on my way,” he lied—and poorly at that, “I will be but a few moments more, I assure you.”

“Assure your door guard, not me.” Gwen shrugged. “He can’t go home until you do.”

That struck Aymeric right where she had hoped it would hurt the most: that painfully Ishgardian sense of duty. He couldn’t even hide the way he flinched bodily at the pointed comment, and though he straightened from behind his desk entirely, he had the look of a man fighting every urge to curl into an ashamed ball.

“Y-yes, well—” he stammered in a moment of uncharacteristic gracelessness.

In a way, it was a reminder to Gwen that he was human, too; they were both infallible by demand of their duties and their positions. Even in the face of martyrdom, it was expected—demanded— of them not to falter.

But they had. They had. And they would again.

Aymeric searched her eyes for a long moment, as if debating with himself. Gwen met his gaze evenly, though she couldn’t help but wonder if he were staring straight through to something—or someone—that she wouldn’t recognize as herself.

Admittedly, she didn’t know him well enough to parse which it was.

When he let out a sigh so heavy that his posture slumped, she was pulled out of her reverie. Her eyes refocused in time to clock that the rattling of his armor was him pulling his posture straight on his next inhale.

“I know a lost battle when I see one.” he conceded with his hands up, “Pray, at least tell me what you are doing up at this hour on our way, then? Perhaps a walk will do us both some good.”

Though the suggestion caught Gwen off guard, she found it preferable to watered down ale and an empty belly at the Forgotten Knight. Walking would at least keep her occupied—and walking beside Aymeric would at least guarantee that any attention and deference would be directed his way.

It was easy to all but slip into the shadow of his silhouette looming at her side as they made their way out into the night. Easier still to hide in the broad shadow he cast even in a simple winter coat. It was easy, and not a little comforting, to have a friend that mattered enough that she could be paid no mind by comparison.

Even the thought was enough to inspire a pang of guilt in her chest. Was their friendship one of convenience? Had that been what she had with Haurchefant, too? Was that the sort of friendship he had died for?

Of course not—Gwen knew that. Of course he hadn’t died for that. Of course their friendship had mattered. Still mattered.

Prior to his rescue from the Vault, Aymeric had occupied a space in Gwen’s general social sphere that settled somewhere between “friend” and “work colleague,” where she had mostly thought of him in the same circle of friends, but not necessarily her friend. The same place she had put Estinien, really, though goodness knew where the Dragoon had gone off to in order to mourn in his own way. Quietly, she promised to all three of them, those both here and gone, that she would try to reach out further. Try to show that it mattered.

The walk took them to the Pillars, though Gwen found she minded less with Aymeric to buffer her against howling wind and piercing gazes alike. She had almost missed it happening entirely until it registered that they were halfway up the staircase from Foundation, and the surprise tensed her shoulders despite her best efforts.

If Aymeric noticed the shift in her at his side, he didn’t directly comment, instead saying, “I confess, I would ordinarily sleep in my quarters at the Congregation after dismissing the lift guard, but I do not imagine you would trust me to rest.”

Gwen recognized his tone as intently conversational; he was trying to open a neutral dialogue with her. If she were honest, it was that extra degree of decorum that made her feel set apart from him.

In a way, it felt like he always, deliberately, said something other than what he truly wanted to, even around those in his social circle. It gave him an air of deceptiveness that she couldn’t shake, despite knowing that he wasn’t actively trying to lie to anyone.

But Aymeric had spoken and was plainly expecting a response, however politely. Though it hadn’t have been longer than the span of a few breaths, it was just long enough that his expression had taken on a concerned edge to it.

“My friend, are you quite well?” he asked, not unkindly.

“Yeah,” she lied, “but anyroad: no, I wouldn’t trust you would actually rest so much as I could throw you in yalms.”

His laugh was warm enough to chase away the numbness in her bones, though it returned in a howling rush when that laugh tapered into a pained grunt and a hand pressed at his side. That he waved her off with his free hand did nothing to make that spark of reprieve return.

“‘Tis nothing,” he lied. “‘Tis nothing.”

They walked in silence until they crested the staircase. That quiet existed in a liminal space between companionable and impenetrable. The sort of silence that was heavy with the want to talk and a lack of knowing what to say in that moment.

At the top of the stairs, Aymeric finally found the words he was looking for, and tentatively suggested, “as it is plain we are both in need of some succor, I would invite you in for tea, if you would accept it.”

The offer made Gwen’s steps falter so horribly that he shot out an arm to help her right her footing. As he attempted to smother another flinch at moving too quickly for his wounds, she took a moment to wrangle her thoughts before they got away from her.

An initial reaction was to recoil away from the offer—almost physically, had she not caught herself. It was less that she didn’t feel safe with him—she did—it was more that the thought of being somewhere private with anyone struck her at her spine with a spear of ice.

When had it ever gone well when she had let herself be brought into someone’s fold? Nanamo had nearly paid for that mistake the last time. Other people—good people, people Gwen had personally recruited into the Crystal Braves—had picked up the tab in either a partial or whole capacity. Her path to Ishgard was easily traced; having marched out of a river of blood, her footprints were stark in the snow.

And her hands had been far from clean even before then—

But Aymeric was offering little else but food and friendship. Nothing about the offer struck her as diplicitous or insidious; he had no further motive than ushering them both in from the cold.

In the time leading up to discovering the truth of the Dragonsong War, Gwen had pushed Haurchefant away in fear of letting him in too close, in making his friendship matter too much, and all it had amounted to in the end was letting him die not knowing how much his friendship had mattered. That he mattered.

And here she was, presented with another opportunity to shun another friend. Another fork of diverging paths stood before her. A new spot in the road with the same decisions.

All this mental spiraling over tea, she thought derisively to herself. As if she were some noble. As if she were Lady Ashe. In that moment, she felt deeply and forcibly removed from everything she recognized as herself.

Ignorant of her mental turmoil, her stomach announced its emptiness. The silence that had ensconced them made the growling all the more pronounced, and when Aymeric’s eyes narrowed as he peered worriedly, Gwen felt red-hot humiliation burn her cheeks.

“And a late dinner?” he sweetened the pot with a sympathetic smile. “I have not eaten recently either—doubtless mine own stomach will begin to harmonize shortly.”

It was only then that he chuckled—an invitation to laugh along, rather than being made the joke, she realized. She chose to take it, and was startled at how good it was to laugh, even a little. The imperfection of it made it feel a little more real. Made her feel a little more real.

Laughing suddenly made the thought of being friends less scary. Just a little. Just enough for that reactionary knot in the pit of her stomach unfurl gently.

Just enough for her to say, “you had best lead on then, lest we perish from hunger.”

Another, easier laugh trailed them as they gamely made their way up the street to Borel Manor.

Gwen had to put effort into not letting her speculation run wild as to what his home could possibly look like; he was the Lord Commander of Ishgard and a noble besides, surely his estate was buried somewhere deep and towering in the spires of the Holy See, she’d reasoned.

So it surprised her enough that she almost barreled into Aymeric’s back when he came to a stop at the house neighboring the Atheneum Astrologicum, and realized that he had begun to fumble in his pocket for a set of keys. It was only the credit of her reflexes that let her stop so sharply.

The Manor was modestly grand, if ghostly—she had walked past this home dozens of times before now, and she had thought it a storage building or at least abandoned for how uninhabited it always seemed no matter the time of day. With the crates filling what was once a chocobo stable and no other visible homes facing it on any side of the street, she hadn’t even clocked it for a home despite its structure and style.

Somehow, everything and nothing about this home fit with the man that now stepped up to its door: grand, but only just. Standing tall in the shadow of the city with its back turned. Looking at it that way, Gwen almost couldn’t fathom Aymeric living anywhere else in the city.

What she didn’t miss, though, is the way he had to wrestle his house key into the lock. The hinges, too, resisted yielding to pressure with the telltale creaking groan of rust and misuse.

It was almost as if Aymeric were as much a stranger in his own home as she was.

At the loud thunk of the door reconnecting to the frame and the heavy clang of the lock bolts fitting back into place the light of lanterns and stars was banished, and they were ensconced in shadowy pitch almost instantly. In the darkness, Gwen could hear a few moments of blind fingers scrabbling along a wall in search of a light switch.

It seemed as if that the rest of the manor began to stir with startled signs of life coming from deeper in the home; within moments, a soft but crisp click rang out from the foyer beyond the mudroom they were standing in, and a graceful but aged man appeared from around the corner as light spilled in with a flickering start behind him.

“Master Aymeric!” gasped the man. “We were not expecting you home this evening—do forgive me, I did not prepare any—”

From the moment the gentleman emerged, draped his sleep clothes and house slippers, Aymeric immediately pivoted his focus. Gwen watched with mild fascination as he almost turned into a completely different person in the time it took him to turn around.

“Lumeaux, pray do not feel you must oblige us at so late an hour!” Aymeric insisted through an easy laugh, hands making a soothing motion in the space between them. “Nennanne would lose what little respect she had for me if I couldn’t handle myself in the kitchens.”

“B-but—!” the servant protested, his eyes flitting to meet Gwen’s for a moment.

But Aymeric was already taking her coat for her and ushering her warmly inside with a sweep of his arm, his attention split between welcoming her and explaining themselves to his staff.

“My friend and I are merely availing ourselves of the fire—which you have perfectly banked that I might stoke anew! Now do take the rest of the evening off, my good man, and please accept my apologies for us disturbing your sleep so.”

It felt almost painfully Ishgardian to witness, but it did warm her to see her friend in such an informal light. In a way, he felt more human for it. Their words fell away into a familial droning murmur hovering in the periphery of her focus. It was enough to ease away the most immediate tension that had clenched her whole body tight.

That was, at least, until she nearly leapt out of her skin at a warm weight unexpectedly pushing itself against her calf. It was only years of training herself not to impulsively react to things around her feet in case of traps that kept her from leaping back with a winding kick.

Fortunate that Gwen had such restraint, for when she looked down at the source of this intrusion she was met with the telltale wide, slowly blinking eyes of a housecat. The cat blinked again, slow and sleepy, and let out a wheezy meow.

The noise was loud in the soft din of the foyer—loud enough that it immediately drew the attention of Aymeric and Lumeaux, who ended their conversation so promptly and in sync that it nearly startled Gwen as much as the cat’s appearance had.

An elderly and cantankerous tuxedo cat, she looked up at Aymeric and, upon realizing who it was, practically stepped on Gwen’s feet to cross over and greet her master.

“I gather the little lady has been most comfortable?” he asked Lumeaux as he watched the cat rear up on her hind legs and put her front paws out to beg him.

Instantly, he bent and gingerly scooped her into his arms.

“Yes, my lord,” supplied Lumeaux, “though one would be forgiven for presuming neglect for her forlorn wailing as she searches the halls for her master.”

That comment had Gwen looking up in surprise, her eyes settling on Aymeric to gauge his reaction before she could even think on the action.

His flinch was only subdued for the “little lady” fussing in his arms, but Gwen couldn’t help wondering if there was a story there.

“Would that work permitted me to visit more.” he mumbled, stubbornly not looking up from raining attention on his cat. “Alas.”

Prior to their departure to treat with Ysayle, Gwen recalled Estinien mentioning something about Aymeric being a poor liar. At the time, the comment had struck her as odd; as a politician, surely lying is part and parcel of his job?

So it was something of a dawning realization to see Aymeric lying in motion; a cracked mask, averted eyes, a faint flush that dusted his ears: nervousness.

Without looking up from scritching under the cat’s chin, he said, “pray take the rest of the night off as intended, Lumeaux. Amelia is well in hand, and I will see my guest tended to.”

The attendant spared Gwen a meaningful, sidelong glance before he bowed gracefully and excused himself. Though she hardly knew the man for more than a few minutes, she knew someone’s pleading look when she saw it; doubtless, he was just as desperate for Aymeric to rest as everyone else around him.

Fortunately, she was of like mind. But this exchange left her with more questions than answers.

If Aymeric had seen the look he gave it no reaction, instead carefully walking in a gliding march step toward a plush cushion on a well-loved armchair and laid the little lady carefully upon it as though it were her throne. In all likelihood, she had seized it in a bloodless coup against the master of the House in retaliation for his absence, and it had become just that.

Which only left her to contemplate this unexpected state of affairs she found her friend living in.

“Now, then!” he chirped suddenly once his cat had fully insinuated herself into the armchair cushion. “Pray make yourself at home. I’ll be but a moment.”

At the quizzical tilt of her head, he laughed and explained, “I’ll just nip down to the kitchens for light refreshment. We could both do with something, I think.”

And just like that, the reticence that she had thought a part of the man before her instead settled over him again, any trace of the ease he’d shown gone once more.

As she watched him step out and disappear into the darkened kitchen and fumble for the light, Gwen couldn’t help but ponder this change, this lack of familiarity despite all they had gone through together. It struck her how familiar this felt—how this must be what it felt to be her friend, in this strange world where she couldn’t anchor herself to her Scions.

Had she earned such reticence, then, with how reserved she had been? Were that his reasoning for his reluctance, she found she couldn’t entirely fault him; it made sense, in a way. It contextualized their standoff in a way that wore down the worst of the edges to it; neither of them could wholly help it, though nor could either of them be the first to entirely unwind that tension.

But then, the man himself had hardly seemed to be open to even those immediately closest to him, only just letting himself be familiar with the man he paid to be there. Was he missed when he was away?

You’ve got a well-run home to come back to and a cat that you adore, but you avoid it all if you can help it. You choose that. Why? Gwen pondered while waiting for Aymeric to emerge with their tea.

At his reappearance, tray in hand and smile on his face, she felt those questions press her tongue to her teeth with their sudden weight rushing to spill from her. Biting them back, she returned his smile with one of her own.

“For fear of further disrupting the staff, I kept to what I could find already made in the larder,” explained Aymeric as he stepped into the foyer, “admittedly, ‘tis more odds and ends than a meal, but—”

“That’s alright,” Gwen said without even looking at what he had brought, hands motioning in a placating manner, “please, sit down.”

There was only a moment where his mask slipped—a wince he smoothed back almost quicker than she could perceive it happening in the first place.

“Of course.” he said tightly.

At first, Gwen thought she might have erred enough to cause offense, but the strain in Aymeric’s jaw as he bent a few ilms more to set the tray down on the table gave away the root cause of his consternation.

“Your wounds…they’re getting worse, aren’t they?” she guessed.

Blessedly, Aymeric shook his head and said, “Not worse, though certainly not better. Nor fewer in their number.”

After a moment, he finally huffed a sigh and gestured toward a plush armchair, insisting “Pray sit down. You are worrying me, my friend.”

It wasn’t until he had said something that she realized that she had denied his request to make herself comfortable twice before he had even gone to get them tea. It would certainly explain the pinch in his good cheer; he was likely unsure of how to be denied the ability to be a good host.

“Sorry—you just worry me, too.” she slumped into an overstuffed armchair with a huff. “You could at least sit down yourself, you know.”

Aymeric startled in a way that suggested to Gwen that it had not occurred to him to also take a seat until she had mentioned it. After a few moments of contemplation, hands frozen mid-reach for the teapot, he gave a decisive, singular nod.

“I will, yes—once I have your tea poured—”

He looked so tired all of a sudden. The war had pulled at all of their exhaustion, though she hadn’t realized quite how it had aged any of them so much as she did in that moment.

When he twisted at the waist to lift the pot of tea and fill her cup, Aymeric flinched badly enough he had to set it back down again for a moment and press at his abdomen. In an instant, the color had drained from his face as he clenched his jaw and took a sharp, shuddering inhale through his nose.

“I’m fine.” he said—and there was more of a tremble in his voice than she had ever heard from him.

Gwen hadn’t realized he had said something in response to her until she noted that she had half risen from her seat before he’d uttered a single word but the realization made her freeze on the spot, peering up at him in alarm.

He had never sounded more honest than in that moment of choosing to lie, with all decorum and poise gone from him. He had never seemed more real to her than in that moment, looking at someone battered and broken and still trying to serve.

Gwen saw Aymeric, for just a moment, free of his trappings and station. She saw her friend—or at least, the man that she could befriend.

“Easy now, take your time.” she said, even knowing that it likely didn’t make sense to.

She watched him nod and take a slower breath. His eyes slipped shut as let out a breath through parted lips. She watched him catch his breath for a few horribly tense moments as she sat frozen and half risen from the sofa, caught between the want to help and the fear that it wouldn’t.

After a long moment that seemed to stretch for eternity, he made to reach for the teapot again.

“I am well,” he promised her again, “if reminded of my limitations more often than I would like of late.”

“I take it your wounds aren’t healing so well?” she chanced, still not sitting fully back down.

To his credit, Aymeric didn’t hide the way he winced that time. “Progress is rarely so linear a thing.” he argued, however weakly. “Less so, when there are…aggravating complications.”

A delicate way to sidestep being stabbed, but then neither of them seemed keen to revisit that. Neither of them seemed keen on revisiting much of their history tonight—shared or otherwise.

Before she could think better of it, she had stood fully from her seat and reached for his hand as he made to lift the teapot again. It had been an automatic reaction: to reach, to help.

“Here, I can��”

Aether hummed at her fingertips. Just under the skin in the palm of her hand it prickled like static electricity, waiting to flood out of her in a rush of healing magic. Every part of her wanted to ease the discomfort of her friend in that moment.

She knew how to do it. All she had to do was push it out of herself—

—and the blood would be staunched. All she had to do was keep pushing, keep digging for more, more aether to knit flesh and weld bone.

There are eyes on her. They feel…hopeful. Expectant. Breaths held in a prayer circle around and overhead of her. Bathed in the golden light of evening and radiant from her power blooming out from her hands, they watch as waves of healing magic roll off of the bloodied, blazing hole in his chest like smoke off the surface of a lake.

All she had to do was keep giving everything she had, and it would eventually be enough.

If she tells herself this fervently enough, it will eventually be so. She doesn’t know what else to believe in this moment. With her aether, she pushes further to try and sense where his pain is at its worst.

When there is no guidance from her aether, no direction to point where the pain is on her patient, her threadbare faith is shattered and scorched. There is no guidance to the pain because he felt none.

The only blood she sees is the dribble that runs down his chin as he gurgles on it. He is shifted by hands that are not hers, to make him more comfortable. There should be more blood, but there is only light: from his chest, from her hands, there was only light.

Everything in her years of trials, training, and tribulations tells her that she has never seen a chest wound half a severe as this turn out to be anything less than fatal. Her magic has accepted what is about to happen long before she ever could. She isn’t sure she ever can.

It was only a testament to the knight’s strength that he was able to drag ragged breaths through his sundered lungs. Through the glowing iridescent light that turned what was left of his ribcage in to a lantern of holy light, she knows the extent to which his battered body has been rent asunder.

She persists anyway. She does not believe it. She can’t.

There is only light, and she pushes out more of it from her hands. When that isn’t enough for her magic to find purchase, she lets it bleed out of her fingertips, from her heart. The aether glows with a brightness that rivals the sunset on the horizon.

She can’t see him anymore. She can’t see any of them anymore. Still, she pushes.

As the light brightens, blooms, swells, she feels a coldness creep down her fingers, through her veins, up her arms. It feels as if she is pouring every onze of aether, spilling every drop of blood in her body, all for the hope that the thread of her magic could catch in his flesh and begin to sew him back together like a patchwork mammet.

But a burning crater cannot be cauterized. There is no floor to the yawning chasm of that wound. Her aether, her tears, her friend, it all falls, falls, falls…

“Gwen!”

It was far from a shout—a call would be more appropriate, given its soft but strained urgency—but it was loud enough to snap her focus to the present. It was enough for her to remember that while that nightmare had happened recently enough that their wounds had not even scarred over yet, it was only a memory now.

Coming back to her body after an Echo was always disorienting, but she was glad for Aymeric’s presence in that moment: as she began to test her limbs, she realized, belatedly, that he had maneuvered her back into her chair.

“Easy now,” he said, and there was a softness to his voice that she had not thought he could manage. “Easy. I know not the specifics, but I know shock when I see it.”

Limbs leaden and head filled with cotton bolls, Gwen watched in a daze as Aymeric began to fuss as much as his wounds would permit. His hands were a blur across the serving tray as he set about arranging things for her. Eventually, she had to close her eyes and stop watching to minimize the nausea.

“Here,” he said after a moment, and she felt the rush of warmth of a steaming cup of tea being hovered over her nose. “Drink.”

Moving her arms made her hands shake. When he noticed this, Aymeric frowned and gently bat her hands away.

“I can hold it—you are trembling,” he said softly.

When she realized he was holding the cup for her to drink from and she tried to feebly protest, he shook his head and insisted, “It is no burden—every knight has been here at one point or another. Drink,” he repeated the gentle command, “Small sips, now. There we are.”

Heat bloomed on her face hotter than the tea could account for. All the same, she tipped her head forward just enough to drink—and found herself grateful that he knew how to angle the cup so as to prevent it dribbling down her chin. The way in which he does so tells her in a way that he does not elaborate on with words that he had done this before.

The tea was strong but well brewed, heady and robust on her tongue as she sipped. After a few moments of the caffeine working its way through her system Gwen sat up straighter and took the cup from Aymeric with steadier hands, and he gladly ceded the cup to her.

With his hands freed from serving her tea, he began to move back to the tray—and with eyes less hazy she could watch him break apart little biscuits and pieces of cheese, some almonds, and soft baked bread, tearing them into little pieces and putting them on a small plate before her.

“Nibbles,” he said aloud when he noticed her staring. “Easier to keep down, less work to chew.”

His selection looked deliberate, nothing with too much of a scent to upset her stomach but still offering her enough to be substantive. After seeing his work done to his satisfaction, he took a hunk of bread and a few biscuits for himself with less care and attention paid to the plating.

Gwen continued to drink deeply from her teacup to avoid speaking in this moment, overwhelmed by care she felt both unworthy of and unaccustomed to. Her head still felt foggy, though the cobwebs that filled her mind after such a harrowing recollection had begun to knock themselves loose, aided by the tea.

Aymeric waited until she set her cup down and refilled her cup while she busied herself with a bite of biscuit. Ginger, bright and sweet, burst on her tongue with the soft chew of what she realized was a molasses cookie.

Gwen thanked him quietly for topping off her cup. He murmured a vague nicety in that near-automatic way he always did with effortless earnestness. Something to the effect of “‘Not at all,” but she was more focused on the way his eyes darted everywhere but her as he set the teapot back down on its cozy.

A palor hung over the parlor as they settled back into their seats. Wounds both emotional and physical unintentionally reopened, they both felt flayed open and raw for how they had dragged themselves through the last several days.

Longer, really. Gwen wondered how long it had been for Aymeric. In a sleep deprived sort of way, she wondered how long it had truly been for herself while she was as it.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out in the heavy quiet.

Aymeric looked up at her in surprise, but she had already felt the momentum of her rambling picking up; borne of a need to fix this heavy silence, her mind was already scrambling against the rubble of her focus to find something to distract them with.

“You have naught to be sorry for.” he replied, surprise still writ plain in his features.

She would beg to differ, but that was a whole other story entirely. All she had were stories, after all. All she had was what she was capable of—what she had been kept around for, in most situations, she guessed.

For a time, she had thought that Aymeric had also seen her that way. Maybe he even had, before they had known each other.

Perhaps his still did—

“Here I am dwelling, when I could be telling you one of my exploits!” she chirped so sharply her voice cracked.

“Wh-what?” he sputtered.

Gwen’s outburst had caught him so thoroughly off guard that he hadn’t had time to hide the shock and confusion on his face.

Already in verbal freefall, she couldn’t stop herself from continuing, even as she had seen his expression, babbling, “Ah, ah, which one should I…? How about my fight with Leviathan? Well, you probably heard it before we met, right? But I could tell you—”

Under the pressure of performing, her voice splintered again. Nevertheless, she tried to push through. To distract. To fix. To run. She wasn’t even sure anymore—

“Gwen.” Aymeric interrupted her gently.

Her voice had squeaked on the start of her half-formed tale—it had made it all the easier to let her words die on her tongue. It seemed to be enough to help Aymeric decide something, as he reached across the settee to lay his hand over hers.

She startled at the contact—his hand was warmed from the teacup, but his touch was faint. It didn’t trap her; it would be easy to slide her hand away from his. Recognizing it for the offer of comfort that it was, she made no move to pull away, but looked at him ponderously.

His expression was patient, if a touch sad.

“You need not entertain anyone with your dossier—least of all me, my friend,” he insisted, “even had I not read them already, I would not ask of you what would not bring you joy to share.”

“Then my stories would bore you, I fear. My favorite parts are rarely the things that make it into songs, Aymeric.”

“Then I have never heard them before—thus, they cannot possibly bore me,” he insisted with a gentle sweep of his hand on its way to plucking his teacup from its saucer again, “and you will recall I have traveled no further out of Coerthas than Dravania—and even that grew infrequent as my knighthood progressed. Ul’Dah was but a singular building for how little time I was permitted there.”

Gwen recognized the subtle shift in topic for what it was: an out. She gladly took it, half from eagerness to shift focus but also because she was deeply curious.

“Leadership needing to be held back to see the whole of the battlefield and all that?” she guessed—it had been the primary tactic she had learned through the Grand Companies.

At that, Aymeric snorted uncharacteristically. “Not at first. Captains are always on the front line—when you’ve been an archer for the last five years before that promotion, ‘tis quite the adjustment to be your squadron’s first and last line of defense.”

“You weren’t always a swordsman?” Gwen asked, surprised.

“Of a certainty, I received the training, same as any other knight. ‘Twas not my preference, however.” he admitted. “But it is the weapon of leaders—they are the shield for all to stand behind. They trust that they have led their team such that they need not look behind them to know their back is covered in kind.”

His smile thinned. “As recent events have shown, I have not always had the luxury of the latter.”

“That does not make you a bad leader,” she countered gently.

“It made me a bad leader to them. And when theirs are the blade at your back, their assessment is all that matters.” he parried, his tone as swift and soft as it was tired. “But we have both dwelled over long on such miseries tonight, I should think. Unless you would like to speak of them to let them go—in which case, I shall gladly listen.”

The most wounded corner of Gwen’s heart howled the question of why. Was it born of a kinship he wanted to foster, or out of a need to keep her in his pocket for her abilities? The scar tissue on her heart still ached with the rawness of a bleeding wound.

“You don’t have to.” she said. “Ishgard still needs me whether we’re friends or not.”

Wounds inflicted on Aymeric’s person had drawn out winces and hisses of pain as he had recovered. Before he had even received medical attention, he had refused to acquiese to the pain, to show that he was hurt at all unless the pain overwhelmed him in brief moments of weakness.

So the expressions that rippled over his face in the immediate moments after the utterance were completely new to Gwen. She had never seen him look truly hurt before that moment. Not in a way that seemed to matter to him. She had not realized he could be that hurt.

“I—” he stumbled for words a moment, teacup nearly dropping from his grasp in his shock before he had to set it down and wiping his hands on his pants legs. “If I have ever given the impression that my concern was aught less than sincere—”

Now well and truly caught in the tangle of emotions that pulled her heartstrings taut, Gwen chose to disentangle this one particular knot in her throat.

“You’ve always been polite and respectful. Beyond reproach, really.” she said slowly, carefully watching his face for reactions to her words to gauge how they landed. “You also haven’t given much of an impression, if I’m being honest—you hold yourself at a distance from everything. Until—until fairly recently, I viewed you as more of my friend’s friend. Colleagues, really, for how much we know of each other.”

Peculiarly, it was Gwen’s turn to feel an unexpected ache in her chest when Aymeric averted his gaze but otherwise looked unsurprised. Like this wasn’t the first time he had been told he was too reclusive before.

She opened her mouth to try and say something even before she had words to grasp at but he held up a hand before she could speak.

“You have the right of it.” he said softly.

It was only then that he looked up at her and continued, “I have been…reticent, in expressing my joy and gladness for the friendships that I have. So it has been for almost as long as I can remember.”

“But why? Surely it wasn’t hard for a charmer like you to make friends—”

“Alas, rumours of my lineage existed for longer than I had the speech to refute them,” Aymeric explained, “and most of the children my age at the time had heard the rumours from their parents long before they had even met me.”

At that, he paused and angled his head in thought, and haltingly added, “I am…not used to people not knowing that, I suppose.”

“Ishgard isn’t exactly a small city-state,” Gwen blurted in surprise, “was there no one who didn’t know?”

In his lap, his hands twitched. After a moment, he reached for his teacup again.

Half into his tea, he answered, “In all my years living here I have met only two individuals who did not already know of me, and both of them only after I had grown.”

“...Lucia?” she guessed.

Aymeric nodded. “And Estinien,” he added. “I am accustomed to keeping myself…apart from the whole, when not in political social circles. It has kept me safe and let me observe who I might trust. I will not pretend it has made me terribly popular, but it spared me the mockery when I did make the attempt.”

“Why on earth would someone mock you for trying to make friends?” Gwen frowned deeply as she pondered aloud.

“I have come to understand that it was my method that left me open to such japes at my expense: I used to take my pocket money and buy out all the misshapen macaron from the local patisserie, and I would offer them to the children in exchange for letting me play with them.”

There was something sweet about imagine a little boy version of Aymeric toddling over with a box of sweets trying to make friends but knowing how it played out made her heart twist to picture it.

“But why would any kid turn down such a simple offer?” Gwen asked.

Nothing about that made sense to her; knowing how hungry she had been as a child, how she had needed to make do with the taste of flowers in the best of times and refuse in the worst of times, she could not fathom a world where she would turn down such a bargain.

Innocent as the question had been, it still inspired a flinch out of Aymeric before he answered, “Those children in the noble houses turned their noses up at the offer; even those who had not been adequately warned of me thought the offerings unacceptable because they were the discarded macaron that weren’t good enough. The children of the Brume did not believe my offer was so straightforward—many had been told never to trust a noble. Often, I had been accused of trying to buy their favor.”

After a moment of contemplation, he mused, “In a way, I suppose I was. I had wanted to be friends.”

“That seems cruel.” Gwen said before she could think better on it.

“Children are no more immune to the harshness born from the world’s cruelties than men—merely less restrained in its use but more confined by their own lack of power.” he shrugged. “But so, too, are they capable of unmitigated kindness born of joy that exceeds what they should be capable of. Such is the way of it, where growing minds are concerned.

What I’ve never told anyone—few save Estinien would even know of it—is that I continue to buy out the remaining stock of malformed macaron boxes from that bakery, and I just…forget them, all about the Brume, where the children are most oft seen congregating.”

“Why? You’ve grown now.” Gwen asked, curious.

“And the children of the Brume continue to go hungry.” Aymeric said plainly, shrugging. “Let them keep their pocket money and have something to enjoy to boot—it was a small kindness I could not be accused of heresy for committing, so chose I commit it. Every day.”

“Wouldn’t something useful be a better kindness? Like a blanket or something?” Gwen asked before she could stop herself.

Wincing, she attempted to try and soften the question but he nodded before she could find the words. “Aye, that it would,” he agreed. “Would that doing so would not be taken as a slight against the Church’s inability to provide—which would be paramount to heresy in itself. Although…”

It was only then that Aymeric averted his eyes as he pondered something to himself. After a moment’s debate, he admitted, “I suppose that was but one facet of my reasoning at the time— in a way, I had put some distance between myself and the truth that they are starving. It was easier to believe that it was just a nicety to top off a fed child than to admit that necessities are a luxury for most.”

There was that pesky rain cloud hanging over the room again, just when they had started to lighten the mood. Just when he had started opening up.

“I’m sure they appreciate it, even if they can’t articulate that.” Gwen said before thinking better of it.

When he looked up, she felt strangely cornered by her own admission, and honesty compelled her to explain, however vaguely, “No one is born the Warrior of Light.”

“Nor the Lord Commander, and yet I did not know such hunger. You need not—”

“Everyone has struggles,” she said, shrugging, “just not always the same ones.”

Gwen held her breath and waited for the pressing. The questions. Fingers fidgeted with the hem of her shirt for want of something to occupy them as she waited.

Her discomfort must have been apparent; Aymeric merely nodded.

“Just so.” he agreed softly.

It was her turn to flinch. “I don’t think you’re doing a bad thing—”

“You need not coddle me over my privilege, my friend. I assure you, the lesson is an important one. I thank you for reminding me of it.” after a moment of consideration, he added, “though I suppose I can afford more than just one thing to forget about the Brume—really, the macarons are very cheap. Blankets were an excellent suggestion!”

“It’s a bit harder to pretend to forget to leave a blanket somewhere, Aymeric.” Gwen said flatly even as she couldn’t help the smile.

“...Perhaps Hilda can aid in passing blankets out.” he amended sheepishly after a moment of catching himself.

They both dissolved out of laughter, more giddy with relief than humor.

Even as their ruckus died down, her smile turned apologetic. “I wish it had been easier for you to make friends.”

Gwen looked down into her own tea to avoid watching the way his expression clouded again at that.

“Such as it is for many who dwell here. I was not spared that challenge, even if that trial manifested differently for me than others.”

Aymeric shrugged uncharacteristically. “When someone assumes they know who you are, they never become curious as to whether they are right. Often, I would have to find out after the fact that someone was trying to get close to me in some hope they could avail themselves of some advantage they thought I had. Those friendships would end when they realized that association with me yielded them naught but scorn.”

“Scorn?” Gwen balked, looking back up on reflex in her indignation.

“In the eyes of many in Ishgard, I am the walking indiscretion of the Archbishop. I am the embodiment of his moment of weakness that had the audacity to continue to live.”

His frown deepened enough to crease the spot between his brows as he added, “Truly, the social ostracization, I could handle—it was lonely, and I am hard pressed for friends in the city that I can rely on in the even of an emergency, but I could handle it, had it only stopped there. But the Inquisitors…”

At that, he trailed off for a moment. In that brief silence Gwen couldn’t help but draw conclusions of her own.

Conclusions he all but confirmed when he finished with a shrug and said, “The Inquisitors would make demons out of the most innocent of souls—and as far as they were concerned, those born of the deepest sin must also bear the sin of their fathers. It was less that people thought associating with me would be gauche and more that they might wind up dead.”

Further elaboration was unnecessary; she saw how thoroughly ruled by fear the populace had become through the wrath of the Inquisitors long before she had ever set foot in the city proper. She was only sorry that he had not been spared from their unwavering gaze.

“You deserved better friends. More of them, too.” she muttered, anger that had already been a banked fire in her chest stoked with this newest agitation.

He seemed mildly surprised at that, regarding her from over the rim of his cup.

“Everyone deserves true friends. Would that we all had the opportunity to find them,” he said, and after a long moment of hesitation, he added slowly, “and though I have been…quiet, on matters of friendship, I do consider you a dear friend. I have for some time now. Please know that any attempt at closeness on my part is genuine, if fumbling.”

With a sigh, he set his cup down. He waited until he looked back up at her to add, “I will do better. I want to be a better friend to you and others in my life. I have been forcibly reminded of how fragile such things can be.”

“Friends?”

“That, too.”

After a moment of letting the weight of what was not said settle, he refilled their cups again.

“We should be better friends to each other,” Gwen sighed as she reached for another choice bite of food. “Make the effort to check in more regularly. It’s too easy to lose track of one another in the chaos.”

Aymeric offered her weak but genuine smile with a gesture around the foyer as he said, “I am trying. I promise that I will continue to try.”

“We both will.” she promised him. “It’s a choice, after all. I’m happy to make that choice with you.”

“Friends, then.” he said, and for the first time, she got to see an uncomplicated, beaming smile from him as he did. “And as your friend, I must admit to some curiosity: I know little and less of your time before becoming the Warrior of Light. Might I prevail upon you to indulge in some of my questions?”

When she bristled in a way she couldn’t bite back he held up his hands placatingly and reassured her, “only what you would want to tell me. I only want to know what you want me to know.”

The tension that had begun to build between her shoulders eased, though after a moment to dwell on it, she mused aloud, “I can’t imagine anything personal about me would be interesting.”

“My friend.” Aymeric blanched, visibly putting in effort to keep his expression flat. “I just regaled you with a tale about middling quality confectionaries. You cannot possibly out-bore me.”

At that, Gwen laughed almost too loud for the hour of night. Her chest felt lighter, even if it had not yet healed.

Nothing had been fixed, nor found. Nothing had fully resolved. Ultimately, when the dawn came they would still have their respective tasks to attend to, and an entire realm to balance.

But that was not tonight. Tonight, she began to heal with her friend—with her friend, who she chose to be friends with, to become better friends with.

“I like a challenge!” Gwen said around a cat-like grin beginning to form on her lips.

A grin that Aymeric eagerly met with one of his own. Whatever playful, competitive edge that had compelled her to regale him with a new but safe tale from the road had given way to genuine excitement when she realized that he listened with as much rapt interest as he might when hearing of a great and terrible battle she endured. Somehow, knowing that he wanted to know, well and truly, all the uninteresting parts of her, too made it easier to keep telling him more.

Well into the night, they exchanged stories with one another over a pot of tea and rapidly dwindling finger food. Each story was more mundane than the last, each a new perspective in the lives of one another. Guarded in the shadow of the moon, a friendship was formed in earnest.

#wounds cw #blood cw #ffxiv #aymeric de borel #gwen ashe #eremiss #friend oc #writing commission #thank you again for working with me! it's always a joy to write Gwen ;3;

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mononijikayu · 7 months ago

Text

i saw mommy kissing santa claus — fushiguro toji

“Mom, I saw you kissing Santa Claus last night.” You froze, the coffee cup halfway to your lips as your cheeks turned a warm shade of red. Your husband Toji, on the other hand, lowered his mug, his sharp green eyes sparkling with mischief. He looked at you, one brow raised, fighting the grin threatening to spread across his face. “Oh, really, kid?” Toji said, leaning back casually. “Mommy here was kissing Santa Claus, huh?” You stammered, caught off guard. “W-well, Megumi, I think maybe you were dreaming—" “Nope!” Megumi insisted, crossing his little arms over his chest. “I saw it, mom. You were right by the tree!”

GENRE: alternate universe - canon convergence!;

WARNING/S: fluff, romance, nsfw, r-18, christmas day, santa, parenthood, pet names (babe, love, etc), love, humor, light-hearted, domestic life, slice of life, being in love, parenthood, married life, healthy relationship, toddler, family, late night sex, kissing, p-i-v sex, profanity, sexual intercourse, depictions of sexual acts, depiction of body praise, depiction of naked bodies, mention of sexual innuendo, mention of sexual intercourse, husband! toji, mamaguro! reader;

WORD COUNT: 7k words

NOTE: toji seems to me like the type who would have been so good at teasing mamaguro??? like he would definitely be the person that would also wear a santa claus costume just to put megumi's gifts on the tree and then know that megumi would be watching??? anyway i love their tiny family i am so floored every time i write about them. anyway merry fushiguro christmas!!! i love you all <3

box it up, christmas hun! (santa kayu 2024)

main masterlist

if you want to, tip! <3

YOU ALWAYS ADORED CHRISTMAS. Even as a child, the magic of the holiday season was something your mother and father made sure to bring alive for you.

They worked tirelessly to fill each moment with joy, whether it was the way the house glowed with lights or how the scent of fresh-baked cookies lingered in the air.

Your favorite memories were wrapped in those small, meaningful traditions—sipping hot chocolate while the snow fell softly outside, unwrapping presents by the fire, and gathering together to share stories and laughter. It wasn’t about the gifts or the grandeur, but the warmth of family and the sense of belonging.

Now that you had a family of your own, you were determined to recreate that magic, to pass down those same feelings of joy and love to the people you held closest to your heart. Fushiguro Toji wasn’t raised with those kinds of traditions.

For him, the holidays were often just another day. Especially when he lived with his family and even after that. There was no desire for a fuss, no fanfare. But when it came to you, he was more than willing to step out of his comfort zone.

Toji might not have admitted it outright, but seeing how much the holidays meant to you made it easy for him to get involved. Whether it was wrestling with tangled strings of lights or holding your hand while you browsed for the perfect tree, he found himself drawn into the excitement. It was a quiet kind of joy for him, watching your face light up with happiness as you brought the season to life.

When your beloved Megumi came along, the holidays became even more special. Toji was quick to embrace his role, even if it meant helping you with putting out the tree or helping to bake cookies that somehow ended up burnt half the time.

He didn’t care if it was messy or chaotic—seeing the laughter, the wide-eyed wonder, and the unfiltered happiness of his family made every effort worth it.

What surprised him most was how much he’s slowly come to love those traditions, too. They weren’t just holidays anymore; they were the foundation of memories he never knew he needed.

He started to look forward to the little things, like staying up late with you to wrap presents or watching Megumi to try to stay awake for Santa, only to fall asleep halfway through their schemes.

Each holiday became another chance to build something new together, a season filled with traditions that were uniquely yours. Toji might have started off doing it for you, but somewhere along the way, he realized he was doing it for himself, too.

After all, your beautiful family meant everything to him, it’s now his safe zone—and these moments were proof that he finally had one worth celebrating.

So on this bright Christmas morning, your comely house was tenderly wrapped in a soft, magical stillness. The gentle hum of the house’s heater and the occasional crackle from the fireplace your husband had set up added to the warmth of the room.

The Christmas tree glowed with colorful lights, their reflections dancing on the ornaments and the neatly wrapped presents beneath. The faint scent of cinnamon and pine hung in the air, blending with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

Young and bright four year old Fushiguro Megumi shuffled into the living room, his favorite blanket dragging behind him like a cape. His small, sleepy frame was bundled in his fuzzy pajamas, the ones with tiny snowflakes printed all over.

His dark charcoal hair was a tousled mess, sticking out in every direction as if he’d been wrestling with his dreams. He paused near the doorway, rubbing his blue–green eyes, and blinked at the cozy scene before him.

There you were, curled up on the couch with Toji, both of you cradling steaming mugs of coffee. Toji was dressed in his usual casual sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, one arm draped lazily along the back of the couch, the other holding his mug. He looked relaxed, his sharp green eyes softened with a rare, unguarded warmth.

You were tucked into his side, your legs curled beneath you, wearing an oversized Christmas special cardigan and your fuzzy faux fur slippers.

The two of you shared a quiet moment, sipping the coffee your husband brewed and exchanging conversation and content smiles as the early morning sunlight peeked through the curtains.

Megumi's sleepy gaze lit up as he took in the sight of the tree, its glowing lights illuminating the pile of presents waiting for him. His little mouth opened in a gasp, and he looked at the two of you with wide, sparkling blue–green orbs.

“It’s Christmas!” he announced, his voice still tinged with the rasp of sleep but filled with excitement. “It’s Christmas morning!”

You smiled, setting your mug on the coffee table and opening your arms to him. “Good morning, sweetheart. Merry Christmas.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He toddled over, crawling onto the couch and nestling between you and Toji. Toji chuckled, ruffling Megumi’s messy hair affectionately. “Morning, kid. Looks like Santa came through for you this time around, huh?”

Megumi nodded eagerly, his blue–green eyes darting back to the presents under the tree. “Can I open them now?” he asked, his voice filled with hopeful anticipation.

“Not even a good morning first?” Toji teased, arching an eyebrow. But the playful tone in his voice made Megumi giggle. “Too excited, you are.”

“Good morning, Dad.” Megumi said, grinning as he leaned against you. “Good morning, Mom.”

Your heart swelled at the sight of him, his excitement so pure and unfiltered. You kissed the top of his little head, wrapping an arm around him as Toji stood and stretched, walking over to grab the digital camera.

“All right.” Toji said with a smirk, motioning to the tree. “Let’s see what Santa left for you, kid.”

With a delighted squeal, Fushiguro Megumi scrambled off the couch and ran toward the presents, his blanket forgotten on the floor in his excitement.

You and Toji shared a tender glance, his usual smirk softening into a genuine, warm smile. You shake your head, looking at him with much contentment.

He walked back to you, settling beside you on the couch and slipping his hand into yours. His touch was steady, grounding, as the two of you watched Megumi dive headfirst into the pile of gifts.

His bright laughter filled the room, bright and melodic, blending perfectly with the soft crackle of the fireplace.

For a moment, everything was perfect—pure joy radiating from your son as he examined each box like it was a priceless treasure. Then, Megumi suddenly paused, his small frame still in the middle of the living room.

He turned slowly to face you both, his expression shifting into something unusually serious, his little brows furrowing in a way that was far too mature for his age. When he wasn’t smiling, you were sure your son was quite a young old man in that tiny body.

You blinked, puzzled, as Toji sat up straighter, his grip on your hand loosening. Before either of you could ask what was wrong, Megumi crossed his arms over his chest, his blanket forgotten entirely now, and declared with absolute certainty:

“Mom, I saw you kissing Santa Claus last night.”

You froze, the coffee cup halfway to your lips as your cheeks turned a warm shade of red. Your husband Toji, on the other hand, lowered his mug, his sharp green eyes sparkling with mischief. He looked at you, one brow raised, fighting the grin threatening to spread across his face.

“Oh, really, kid?” Toji said, leaning back casually. “Mommy here was kissing Santa Claus, huh?”

You stammered, caught off guard. “W-well, Megumi, I think maybe you were dreaming—"

“Nope!” Megumi insisted, crossing his little arms over his chest. “I saw it, mom. You were right by the tree!”

His little pout was so serious it almost made you laugh. You tried to hold your composure, his cute little glare gleaming at you with the most adorable aggression. He looked too much like Toji when he was like this. And that had made you even more adoring of him in this way.

Toji’s chuckle deepened as he leaned back on the couch, completely unbothered. “Cookies and milk are standard, kid.” he said, shrugging casually. “But Santa? He’s a special guest. Sometimes he deserves a little extra appreciation.”

Megumi tilted his head, his little face scrunching in thought. “Like a hug?” he asked, glancing back at the presents under the tree, though his curiosity still lingered.

“Sure, sure.” Toji said, smirking as he threw a glance your way. “Or something like that.”

You nudged him with your elbow, your cheeks heating up again. “Toji, that’s not something you should be jumping into.” you whispered under your breath, giving him a look that was equal parts exasperated and amused.

Toji just grinned and leaned in closer to you, his voice low so only you could hear. “What? I didn’t even mention the mistletoe.” His tone was full of playful mischief, and you rolled your eyes, trying to suppress a smile.

“Mom? Dad?” Megumi’s voice broke through, his tiny hands clutching a brightly wrapped box as he looked up at you both. “Can I open this one first?”

You gave a soft laugh, glad for the distraction. “Of course, sweetheart.” you said, smiling warmly at him.

Toji reached over, ruffling Megumi’s hair again as the boy plopped down in front of the tree. “Go for it, kid. Let’s see what Santa left you.”

“Hmm. Okay.” he finally muttered, turning his attention to the colorful boxes waiting for him.

Megumi’s attention shifted entirely to the gift in his hands, his little fingers working furiously to tear the wrapping paper. You let out a breath, glancing at Toji, who was still watching you with that infuriatingly smug look. His hands wrapped against your shoulders.

He leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Kissing Santa, huh, babe?” he teased, leaning in close. “Got any more Christmas spirit for me?”

Your face burned as you playfully shoved him, your smile betraying you. “Shut up, Toji.” you whispered, though the giggle that escaped ruined the effect.

“Guess Santa’s the lucky one this year, don’t you think?” he murmured.

You bit your lip, shaking your head but unable to hide the smile that crept across your face. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, yeah.” he said, his smirk softening into something warmer as he looked at you. “But you love me anyway.”

“Merry Christmas, babe.” Toji murmured, stealing a quick kiss.

“Merry Christmas, love.” you whispered back, heart full and cheeks still warm.

══════════════════

TOJI SAID HE PLANNED EVERYTHING. And knowing how much you trusted your husband, you do believe him. He hasn’t ever failed you before, after all. Your husband wasn’t going to fail you now either. He said he’s going to make it happen and he will.

The night before Christmas was serene, the kind of quiet that wrapped around you like a warm blanket. The only sounds were the faint crackle of the fireplace and the occasional rustle of branches as the tree swayed slightly under the weight of its ornaments.

The vibrant living room glowed softly, bathed in the colorful twinkle of Christmas lights that reflected off the shiny ribbons and bows of some of the presents you had already wrapped and bought for Megumi and each other. All Toji has to do now is add the other ones you bought for Megumi.

You had just finished cleaning up after dinner, your feet padding lightly across the wooden floor as you straighten a few stray decorations. A hum of curiosity pulled you toward the living room, and when you peeked around the corner, you couldn’t hold back a small smile from appearing on your pinkish lips.

There he was— Fushiguro Toji, crouched by the tree, fully dressed in a Santa Claus suit. The red fabric clung to his massively broad frame, the white trim looking comically out of place against his rugged demeanor.

The bright red hat was askew on his head, barely covering his wild, dark hair, and the sight of him muttering multiple times under his breath while adjusting a precariously balanced present was nothing short of endearing.

“Damn this tree’s too small.” Toji grumbled, carefully shoving a particularly large box further under the branches. “How the hell does Santa Claus even do this without knocking everything over? Like, this is just an insane operation for a break in. Mission impossible even!”

You stifled a laugh, leaning against the doorway as you crossed your arms. “You’re really committing to this Santa Claus thing, huh?”

Toji glanced up sharply, his green eyes narrowing at you in mock irritation before softening into a lopsided smirk. You sighed, smiling as he enjoys taking in the sight of you like this. He has never thought he would ever have something as enjoyable as this life. And he always has you to thank for it.

“Caught me, babe.” he said, straightening up and dusting his hands off. “Santa Claus really had to work harder for this. And I gotta commit like he does, babe. I mean, this is harder than it looks, you know.”

You stepped into the room, your gaze sweeping over the scene. “You’re supposed to look jolly, not grumpy, love. Kids don’t want an angry Santa Claus.”

Toji snorted, tugging at the crooked hat and tossing it onto the couch. “You’re lucky I even agreed to wear this, babe.” he said, gesturing at the suit with a faint grimace. “This thing’s itchy as hell. How the hell did people wear this without having to scratch everywhere? Even my crotch feels itchy.”

You rolled your eyes, walking over to adjust one of the presents he’d just placed. “You’re not exactly selling the magic of Christmas, love.”

He leaned against the arm of the couch, his smirk turning sly. “Oh, I don’t know. I think I’m doing pretty good. The kid’s gonna love it in the morning. He’s going to have fun about Santa bringing in lotsssss of cool presents.”

You turned to face him, raising an eyebrow. “And what about me? Does Santa Claus have any surprises for me? I mean….I should get gifts too, right?”

Toji’s grin widened as he pushed off the couch and sauntered toward you, his voice dropping to a playful, sensual murmur. “Actually, yeah. Look up, babe.”

Your eyes followed his gaze, landing on the tiny sprig of mistletoe hanging above your heads. You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. You looked at him with so much adoration, you couldn’t help it. He just made you feel giddy every single day.

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

He took another step closer, his voice low and teasing. “Maybe. But I’m also a hardworking Santa Claus. And Santa likes to get paid for his trouble. I’m sure this pretty lady in front of him will ease his troubles.”

You rolled your eyes playfully once more, your lips twitching as you fought back a smile. “Naughty Santa, aren’t you?” you muttered, leaning up just enough to close the gap between you. “What about Mrs. Claus?”

“Don’t have one.” He smiles down at you, his thumb pressing against your lips. “Would you wanna volunteer to be one, pretty woman?”

You laughed aloud at his words. “Shouldn’t you take me out to dinner first?”

“Well, if you’d let me, then I will.” He grins at you.

“Alright, alright. I’ll let you.”

“Good. Santa’s happy about that.”

“Well, we only want that, don’t we?” You smiled at him.

“Hm, very great for securing your kid a spot on my gift list.”

You giggled at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but I’m your ridiculous, future Mrs. Claus.”

You laughed at his words again, which made him very happy. Your husband Toji happily pressed hands forward and found your waist as he met you halfway, his sly lips brushing against yours in a passionate kiss that was far too warm for such a chilly night.

You pushed deeper, kissing him back, pulling him closer to you. When you finally pulled back to take a breath, his grin was smug as it was shameless, his bright green eyes gleaming with the endless joy that comes with having you as his beloved.

“Best payment I’ve ever gotten. By far.” he murmured, his voice soft but smug.

You laughed, swatting at his chest as you stepped away. “Go finish your job, Santa Claus. There’s still a tree that needs all the presents to set up for the good kid.”

He chuckled, watching you with a lingering smile as you walked away. “Yes, ma’am. But don’t think this is over.” he called after you, his tone full of promise.

“I look forward to it, Santa!”

══════════════════

OF COURSE YOU’LL NEVER FORGET ABOUT LAST NIGHT. You could still feel your legs sore and your throat full of his pleasurable bites. But that wasn’t important right now, even though, of course it felt really good. Santa was really good with blessings. But that wasn’t the point.

You could feel your cheeks turn redder and your ears more scarlet. You tried to calm yourself down as you continued to clear out stuff in the kitchen. The cookies were more important. You had guests coming over.

Of course, on the other side of the wall, the living room was alive with Megumi’s excited giggles and the joyful chaos of wrapping paper flying in every direction. His precious little voice carried as he marveled at each gift, holding up toys and books like treasures.

You peeked at him from the kitchen, your heart swelling at how happy he was. Your son’s joys were the reason you always worked so hard at the prosecutor’s office. And he was, genuinely, the happiest little boy. And that made everything feel like it paid off.

You were in the middle of arranging cookies on a festive plate when you felt it: a pair of strong arms sliding around your waist, pulling you against a firm chest. The scent of pine and the faintest trace of cologne told you exactly who it was before he even spoke.

“Toji, love.” you started, a hint of exasperation in your voice. “What are you doing?”

“Mmm nothing.” he murmured against your ear, his voice rich and teasing. He grins slowly as he catches a peak of the hickeys from your side, hidden in the cardigan. “Just came to say thank you for, you know... last night.”

Your hands froze, the cookie you were holding slipping onto the counter as heat rushed to your cheeks. You were just trying to forget about it now but the images started to flood your head once more as your husband nibbles against your ear.

“Toji, please.” you hissed, glancing nervously toward the doorway to make sure Megumi was too busy with his presents to overhear. The last thing you need is to traumatize your little son.“Not now.”

But Fushiguro Toji, as always, was undeterred. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his lips grazing just close enough to your ear to make you shiver. He hums against your skin, bright eyes looking at you with wanton affection.

“What? I’m just saying Santa Claus didn’t just get a kiss under the mistletoe. I mean he enjoyed it really well too—”

You spin your head toward him, your bright eyes wide as you whisper with embarrassment. “Will you stop? Love, our son’s on the other side of the wall and—”

Toji only grinned, his hold on you tightening slightly as he leaned in closer. “Come on, sweetheart. Admit it. Santa Claus always deserves a little something extra for working so hard, don’t you think?”

“You sly fox of a husband.” you hissed, swatting at his arm as your cheeks turned an even deeper shade of red. “You are impossible. I swear, Toji.”

He let out a low, rumbling laugh, clearly reveling in your flustered state. “You’re cute when you’re all embarrassed like this, babe.” he teased, nuzzling the side of your neck in a way that made your heart skip. “But I wasn’t lying, you know. Best gift I’ve ever gotten.”

Your heart melted at his words, even as you tried to maintain your composure. “You’re lucky it’s Christmas, love.” you muttered, trying to sound stern but failing miserably as a small smile crept onto your face. “Otherwise, it’d be a different story.”

Toji shifted, leaning back just enough to study your beautiful expressions. His bright green eyes were soft, a rare tenderness shining in them that made your breath catch. The air of joy blossoming in his chest ever so fondly when he looks at you more.

“Lucky, huh?” he said, a hint of sincerity beneath the teasing. “Nah. I’m the luckiest guy every day I wake up to you. Every day, every minute, every second. Every day. For forever. I’m the luckiest guy on earth, babe.”

Your face burned hotter, and you turned back to the cookies to hide your expression from him. You could feel your heart making flips and jumps against the wall of your chest. He’s always so good at making you feel this way.

You were really going to be overwhelmed for all your life with how much he always makes you feel the universe with his love and tenderness. You were always going to be falling in love with this man over and over again like this. You sighed, admitting defeat to him.

“You’re ridiculous, love.” you mumbled, but the warmth blossoming in your chest betrayed your words. “Really….”

He couldn’t help but chuckled again, reaching around you to snag a cookie off the plate. You gasp as you try to stop him, but he lifts it up and you pout at him, knowing you can’t reach it. He snickers at you. You turn back and continue putting away the other cookies.

“That’s why you love me, babe.” Toji said, his voice smooth and teasing as he took another bite of the cookie, his smirk practically glowing with satisfaction.

Before you could muster a response, he leaned down, his lips brushing against your temple in a kiss so gentle it made your heart flutter. “Don’t work too hard. Megumi and I are waiting for you, okay? Still got some presents left for us to open.”

You watched him stroll back into the living room, his broad frame relaxed, his laughter already mingling with Megumi’s excited chatter. His voice carried back to you, warm and playful, as he greeted your son again, seamlessly joining him in exploring his new toys.

The sound of Megumi’s giggles and Toji’s deep chuckles filled the house, creating a melody that could warm even the coldest snowy, winter morning. It was what you wanted to wake up to every single day. It was all you could ever want for all of time.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, leaning back against the counter as a soft smile tugged at your lips. It was uncontrollable, this joy, this love that bubbled up in your chest. This was a love that had a place to go and blossom here in this place, in this family. In this life you have.

Ridiculous, you thought with a shake of your head. Toji was ridiculous. But he was also your, the most precious of men who made even the simplest moments unforgettable, who filled your life with laughter, warmth, and love.

And your precious Megumi. Your sweet, bright boy, was the perfect little light who completed the picture. Everything about life made sense when you met Toji and had Megumi together. Life began when you had this. And you knew he would agree with that sentiment.

You looked out at the scene before you, the two of them sprawled on the floor amid wrapping paper and toys, Megumi pointing animatedly at something as Toji nodded with exaggerated seriousness.

It was so small, so ordinary—and yet it was everything. It meant the world to you. No, you shook your head. It meant the universe to you. And you would never trade this for anything in the world.

You felt it all in that moment: gratitude, contentment, and a profound sense of love. How lucky you were, to have this life, this family. This was your everything. And no matter how many lifetimes you could dream of, you knew there would never be anything more beautiful than this.

“Babe, Megumi wants his mommy!” Toji’s voice called from the living room, pulling you from your thoughts.

You chuckled, pushing off the counter and heading toward the sound of your favorite voices. “Coming, love!”

As you stepped into the living room, Megumi beamed up at you, his hands full of his latest toy, while Toji looked over with a smirk that was both mischievous and affectionate. You settled in beside them, feeling their warmth wrap around you like a hug.

Life wasn’t just great to live—it was perfect.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

══════════════════

TOJI'S TAKING ALL THE OPPORTUNITIES HE CAN GET. But if you were being honest, so were you. Last night wasn't enough for you to get your fill. When your husband is someone like Toji, how could you?

The house was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the floorboards as the winter wind pressed against the walls.

Megumi had been tucked into bed after a long, laughter-filled Christmas dinner, his tiny snores signaling that he was sound asleep. The evening had been perfect—filled with warmth, love, and memories you’d cherish forever.

Now, it was just the two of you.

Toji leaned against the doorframe of your bedroom, watching as you pulled off the festive sweater you'd worn all day. His gaze was heavy, but not with exhaustion—it was something else, something that made your skin tingle.

"You finally sitting still for once?" he teased, his voice low, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the grin that followed. "Maybe I am. Or maybe I was waiting for you to catch up."

That was all the invitation he needed. Toji crossed the room in a few long strides, his arms circling your waist as he pulled you close. His lips found yours almost immediately, hungry, but unhurried. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, and for once, it felt like you did.

Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging lightly as he deepened the kiss. His hands roamed, tracing the curve of your waist, the small of your back, and eventually settling at your hips, holding you firmly against him. The heat between you both grew, sparking like the fire you’d left burning in the living room.

"I’ve been waiting all day for this, babe." he murmured against your lips, his voice rough and filled with need.

"Me too." you admitted, your breath hitching as his lips moved to your neck, leaving a trail of soft, teasing kisses that made your knees weak.

The world outside didn’t matter anymore. Not the snow piling up on the windowsill, not the mess of dishes waiting in the kitchen, and certainly not the clock ticking down the last hours of Christmas Day. All that mattered was the way Toji made you feel. You always feel so seen, loved, desired when it comes to your beloved husband.

He guided you toward the bed, his movements slow and deliberate as if savoring every second. The night was yours, a stolen moment of intimacy in the chaos of life.

And as his lips found yours again, you knew this was the best gift you could have asked for—time together, just the two of you, wrapped in the comfort of each other’s arms.

Toji’s arm slid right back around your neck, firm yet careful, pulling you closer as his lips claimed yours once more. The way he touched you sent shivers cascading down your spine, every sensation heightened by the quiet intimacy of the moment.

His grip was confident, possessive, and it made your pulse quicken as pleasure rippled through you like a rising tide. Each kiss, each graze of his hands against your skin, ignited something deep within you, leaving no room for anything else but the heat building between you.

He knew exactly how to unravel you, how to make you melt under his touch, and he didn’t hold back. He never holds back. Not when it was you he has to make love to. Making love to you was his church. It was his patronage. It was his repentance, it was his atonement. It was his salvation. His love for you was his salvation.

“Toji…” Your voice was barely a whisper, a mixture of breathlessness and yearning.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and intense, filled with something raw and unspoken. His thumb brushed gently along your jawline as his other arm stayed firmly around your neck, keeping you grounded in the moment.

“You doin' so good, babe.” he murmured, his voice rough and low, sending a fresh wave of heat through you.

The way he looked at you, the way he held you. Everything about it was overwhelming in the best way. Your body responded instinctively, arching into him as the pleasure coursed through every nerve, building higher with each kiss, each touch, each whispered word.

Time seemed to blur as he continued, his movements unhurried but deliberate, as though savoring every moment with you. And in that moment, nothing else mattered. This was all there was right now, just the two of you, lost in the intoxicating rhythm of each other.

Toji’s lips trailed down to your neck, his hot breath against your skin making you shiver. He knew exactly where to kiss, where to linger, drawing soft gasps from you as his hand caressed your side, sliding over the curves he loved to touch.

The pressure of his arm around your neck wasn’t rough, but good enough to make you feel the tension of his touch against your flesh. Everything about his touch, it was deliberate, possessive, reminding you that he wanted every inch of you, body and soul.

Your hands roamed over his shoulders, pulling him closer, urging him to keep going. The sensations rolled through you like waves, each one stronger than the last, your body responding to his every move. You could feel the heat of him against you, the tension between you building with every touch, every kiss.

“Toji…” you murmured again, your voice trembling with need.

“Hmm?” He didn’t stop, his lips finding that spot just below your ear that made your breath hitch. “Say it again, babe.” he whispered, his tone dark and teasing, sending a fresh jolt of desire through you.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging gently, and the low chuckle that escaped his lips vibrated against your skin, sending shivers cascading down your spine. The sound was rich, deep, and filled with promise, igniting a fire inside you that grew with every passing second.

His lips trailed along your jawline, slow and deliberate, before finding the sensitive curve of your neck. He lingered there, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses that made your breath hitch.

Your body press instinctively closer to him. The warmth of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth against your skin, left you trembling, a quiet gasp spilling from your lips.

His hand slid lower, the roughness of his palm contrasting deliciously against your soft skin. His touch was teasing at first, featherlight, exploring, testing your limits.

But then it grew bolder, more certain, as he found the places that made you quiver beneath him. Every brush of his fingertips sent sparks shooting through your body, the intensity of it building with each moment.

You arched into him, desperate for more, the ache between you growing unbearable. A soft moan escaped you, unbidden but unstoppable, and the sound seemed to ignite something in him.

He let out another low, satisfied laugh, his breath hot against your neck as he murmured, “You sound so good, baby. Don’t stop.”

The pleasure rolled through you like a tidal wave, crashing over every part of you until all you could feel was him. It was all his touch, his heat, his weight against you.

The room seemed to melt away, leaving only the two of you locked in this intimate dance, your bodies moving together in perfect, unspoken harmony.

Your skin grew slick with sweat, the heat between you almost unbearable but so, so good. Every movement, every touch, every kiss only pulled you deeper into him, the connection between you electric and all-consuming.

“Toji…” you whispered, your voice trembling with need, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

He lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze, his dark eyes smoldering with desire as he leaned in close.

“I’ve got you, babe. I got you.” he murmured, his voice rough and filled with raw emotion.

And with those words, he claimed your lips again, pouring every ounce of his passion into the kiss. His hand tangled in your hair, his other still exploring, holding you firmly against him as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Toji’s breath hitched as he stilled, buried deep inside you, his forehead pressed to yours. The heat of your body wrapped tightly around him, the soft, rhythmic flutter of your walls making him groan low in his throat.

It was almost too much for you, how big he was, how whole you feel when he fit you to the hilt. Everything about it the way you felt, the way your body seemed to pulse and cling to him, drawing him deeper into the moment. It all just felt too good.

His hands gripped your hips firmly, anchoring himself, trying to hold onto the frayed edges of his control. A thought flickered in his mind, unbidden and primal: Can I even last long with this?

The idea sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through him, his jaw clenching as he tried to steady his breathing. He didn’t need to move—didn’t need to thrust or grind or do anything but stay right where he was, utterly consumed by the way you felt around him.

The subtle contractions of your body, the way you tightened around him and the way he fluttered tightly against your walls, that was all enough to drive him mad. You were still as you were before, you were paradise in every sense of the word.

“Toji…love....oh—” you whispered, your voice a mix of need and wonder, your nails dragging lightly down his back. The sound of his name on your lips only made it harder for him to hold back.

“Shit, babe.” he murmured, his voice rough and strained. “You’re gonna kill me like this.”

He pressed his forehead harder against yours, his breath coming in uneven gasps as he tried to wrestle with the overwhelming pleasure. Your moans can only grow as he pushed in and out in a more passionate speed.

“I swear… I could come just like this, babe.” he admitted, his voice low and ragged. “The way you’re squeezing me so good, babe… you feel so damn good.”

The confession sent a shiver through you, your body responding instinctively, and he groaned again, his fingers digging into your hips as if to ground himself. He wanted to move, to chase that inevitable high.

But at the same time, he didn’t want to lose the sheer intensity of the moment—didn’t want to lose the way it felt to just be inside you, connected in every way. He still needed to last a little bit more, he wanted this moment to last.

He leaned in, his lips brushing yours as he murmured, “You’re perfect. You know that?” His voice was raw, filled with both reverence and desperation.

And as he stayed there, lost in the heat and intimacy, he wondered if he could ever get enough of this—of you. Every sensation was heightened, every second stretching into eternity, until nothing else existed but him.

The overwhelming pleasure coursing through you. In his arms, you felt completely unraveled, utterly cherished, and entirely his. The world outside faded completely—just the two of you, tangled together in the quiet intimacy of your shared space.

Toji’s movements grew more deliberate, his bruised lips finding your own again as he deepened the kiss, his arm around your neck keeping you anchored to him. His tongue wrestling against yours as he tried to thrust deeper inside your mouth, earning a groan from your throat.

The way he held you, the way he touched you—it wasn’t just desire; it was love, raw and unfiltered, pouring into every moment.

Your body trembled beneath him, overwhelmed by the waves of pleasure he brought you, and you clung to him, lost in the heat of the moment. Toji pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours as he caught his breath, his voice low and husky when he finally spoke.

“You’re mine, babe.” he whispered, the words heavy with emotion and promise.

His calloused hand brushing your cheek as his eyes met yours. And in that moment, you knew there was no place you’d rather be than here, with him, wrapped up in the intensity of his love.

"Always." You whispered back to him.

He felt satisfied with that as he pushed deeper into you.

You couldn't speak words anymore by the end of that.

The world was cold from the snowing echoes, but you were warm.

Warm in the pleasure of the husband you loved the most.

══════════════════

epilogue

The room was still bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, your breathing finally steady after what had been a Christmas evening full of all sorts of intimacy and bright warm laughter.

Fushiguro Toji, ever the opportunist, propped himself up on one elbow, the smirk on his face practically devilish as his fingers began tracing patterns on your bare shoulder.

“You know, babe.” he started, his voice low and teasing, “I’m thinking Santa deserves a little overtime bonus for all his hard work tonight.”

You turned your head, arching a brow as you caught the glint in his eye. “Overtime? Didn’t we just finish the main shift? Both last night and tonight?”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of energy left, babe.” he murmured, leaning in to nip playfully at your ear. “The question is… do you?”

You opened your mouth to reply, maybe to tease him back, but the sound of soft footsteps in the hallway made you both freeze. Your eyes darted toward the door, which creaked open just enough to reveal a mop of messy black hair and the outline of a sleepy little boy clutching his favorite stuffed animal.

“Mom? Dad?” Megumi’s voice was tiny, wobbling just enough to tug at your heartstrings. “I had a nightmare…”

Toji let out a low groan, his head dropping onto your shoulder as he muttered, “Of course you did, kid. Of course you did.”

“Shush!” you hissed, elbowing him lightly before sitting up and pulling the blanket around yourself. “Come here, sweetheart.” you said softly, patting the edge of the bed.

Megumi shuffled in, his little feet barely making a sound as he climbed up onto the bed and wriggled his way into the space between you and Toji. He immediately buried his face against your side, his stuffed animal squished between the two of you.

“What happened, bud?” you asked, stroking his charcoal hair gently.

“There was a big, scary monster…” Megumi mumbled, his voice muffled against your side. “It chased me, and it almost got me.”

You looked at your husband who sighed back at you. Toji pushed himself up onto one elbow, running a hand through his disheveled hair, looking towards his little son.

“A monster, huh?” he asked, his tone light but laced with mock seriousness. “Did it look like a giant turkey? ‘Cause I told you eating all that stuffing was a risky move.”

Megumi pulled his face away just long enough to glare at his dad, his little brow furrowed in unimpressed indignation. “No, Dad.” he said with a hint of exasperation. “It wasn’t a turkey. It was scary!”

“Scarier than me?” Toji teased, flexing his arm dramatically as if that would somehow settle the matter.

You shot him a look, biting back a laugh. “Toji, love. Please.” you warned softly, shaking your head.

“Okay, okay.” Toji relented, holding up his hands in mock surrender. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Megumi’s hair. “Listen, kid, no monsters are getting past me. You know that, right? They take one look at your old man and run for the hills.”

Megumi’s little body relaxed against you, his small hand clutching tightly at your shirt. “Promise?” he whispered.

Toji ruffled his hair. “Promise. Now get some sleep. You’ve got another day of playing with all those presents tomorrow, and I don’t want to hear any complaints about being too tired.”

Megumi let out a sleepy little hum of agreement, his breathing evening out as he drifted off within minutes. Toji flopped back onto his pillow with a long sigh, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

“So, what do you think? Nightmare slayer and round-two initiator all in one night? I’m a man of many talents.”

You smirked, leaning over to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. “You’re also a man with a very tired wife and a son snoring between us. Maybe tomorrow, Toji.”

Toji groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over his face. “Tomorrow? I’m not getting any younger over here.”

You rolled your eyes, stifling a laugh as you settled back down, pulling the blanket up over the three of you. “Goodnight, Santa.” you teased, nudging him lightly.

Toji huffed but couldn’t suppress the faint smile tugging at his lips as he turned to wrap an arm protectively over both you and Megumi. He looked at you both warmly.

“Yeah, yeah. Merry Christmas to me." he muttered, his voice soft and warm. And despite his earlier grumbling, you could feel the contentment radiating from him.

For Fushiguro Toji, there was no better gift than this—his family, safe and sound, wrapped in the warmth of a love he’d never stop cherishing. Life was great.

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